London Poem: Day 183

16 February

Soft slits rising above the noise,
Asking the question:
What are words?
The cold intrusion of the soul,
Someone shouts from somewhere unseen.
So? Another person cries.
You’re drunk.
So, why do I need to make sense?
The shoulders shrug and the world turns,
As time passes without concern.
There is no need to wonder
What will be; You and I are it,
And that is all we need to know;
Words and souls will do what they must.


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In flux

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